If Tonight Ever Makes A Difference
by hopelessromantic549
Summary: She never meant to hurt him. But here they are, in the throes of something she can't even put a name to. Something she has no idea how to fix or break or anything. Something that scares her more than Klaus ever could. D/E post 2x16.


**A/N: Among the shortest pieces I've ever written. Snapshot in time, drabble, that kind of thing. Can go any time after the latest episode. Covers unresolved emotions, I suppose. Oh, who even knows? ;)**

**Thanks as always to Mountain-Woman!**

**Thanks for reading, enjoy, and please don't favorite without reviewing!  
**

**Title from "Vegas Skies" by The Cab.**

_You want your independence,  
But you won't let me let you go.  
- "Center of Attention" by Jackson Waters_

"Don't you ever wish you were more like Katherine?"

The words tremble in the air, like the discord of a badly written song or the quiver of the lip in the middle of a disastrous break-up. She glances up quickly, shock melting into her eyes, toying with her emotions. She thinks she knows what he's asking, but she feels unsure nonetheless.

"What do you mean?" She treads carefully, sliding her gaze back to John Gilbert's journal, tucked protectively in her hands.

His voice comes from far away, disembodied and vaguely pained. "Well, if you were Katherine, you could have us both without feeling guilty, instead of _torturing_ me on a daily basis." He spits out the word like it might kill him.

(She worries it will.)

She sighs. "Damon –"

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about." It's accusatory, and she almost flinches. But she's used to these conversations – she has them with herself often, the script running on constant repeat in her head.

"I do," she says softly, not bothering to deflect or deny or use any of the various defenses she usually employs. "I do know what you're talking about. I just don't want to talk about it."

He scoffs; her shoulders shake. He walks towards her, his steps measured, light, and she thinks stupidly that he moves like the god she knows he isn't.

He stops directly behind her. She doesn't turn around.

"That's not fair." It's a whisper, almost like a lover's caress. But there's a bite in his voice, an edge, like the tired, ragged catch of his fangs when she knows he wishes he had the strength to be someone – anyone – else.

(If only he knew that she's never really wanted him to change, just be better.)

She cocks her head, a silent rebuttal.

The truth is, of course, that she is helpless to push him away.

He rests his hands on her shoulders, his grip just hard enough to hurt (it reminds her of the grip he has on every other part of her, and she shudders). "That's not fair," he breathes again, a tinge of sweet velvet coating his words. "We have to talk about it, because you have to think about it. You're not allowed to ignore it. Because it's all I _ever_ think about."

Under different circumstances, the inherent gentleness of his speech, the devotion sparking in his simple plea, would make her cry. But right now, all she wants to do is sleep. This is too much.

(_He_ is too much, but she cannot let herself think that.)

She shakes her head slowly, leaning into him despite her best mental efforts not to. "You know I don't do it on purpose."

She thinks he blinks.

(She hates that she can feel him like that.)

He is quiet for a moment. She knows he wasn't expecting that. She knows he was preparing himself for another one of her rants about how it'll always be Stefan (and this time a rant like that would have been a lie). But forever is beginning to feel a lot longer than she ever imagined.

Maybe it's too long.

His fingers spell patterns on her skin, dancing, fire erupting everywhere he touches her. She feels dirty, used, because he loves her too much and she can't give him what he needs. But she can't move away.

She's never really been able to move away, even when she hated him.

"I know," he says at last, and it's a strange kind of staggering relief. "That almost makes it worse."

She stiffens, her muscles contracting. She doesn't like hurting him; she never has, even when he was just her boyfriend's sadistic older brother. But in the midst of all this impending doom, she's been hurting him unintentionally, just by barely talking to him.

And now here they are, in the throes of something she can't even put a name to. Something she has no idea how to fix or break or _anything_.

Something that scares her more than Klaus ever could.

She crumbles, curving her head into the hard surface of his stomach, somehow comforting and terrifying all at once. "You're my friend."

His hands cease their ruminations. "I know." He is decidedly bitter.

_No you don't_, she can't help but think.

She leans harder, fiercer into him. "You're my friend," she repeats firmly, because he will always, always be her friend. "You can't be anything else right now. All of this means too much to me."

She hopes he catches the two words that matter most.

_Right now_.

But she knows he doesn't. Because slowly, agonizingly, painstakingly, as if being near her is physically painful, he removes his hands from her shoulders and backs away.

"It's not enough," he whispers, and she closes her eyes, wishes he were lying. "You know it's not enough."

She shakes her head instead of releasing the tears threatening to fall, whipping around to face him. "You don't get it," she insists, the words ice-cold.

But he only raises his eyebrows, that same imperviousness flittering through his eyes. He's putting up his walls again, and she wants to stop it but has never quite known how. "Oh, really?" He pushes, holding his distance even as she glares at him. "I think I do."

She crosses her arms, daring him to explain this situation to her. He acts like he has all the answers, but she knows that neither of them have any idea what's going on between them.

She thinks that even if they did, it wouldn't change anything.

He cocks his head, as if he's taking her in, inspecting, observing. She should feel uncomfortable under the somehow tragic heat of his gaze, but she doesn't. She only feels like it's time to be honest with herself.

No matter how much it hurts.

He smirks, defiant, devilish. "I get that you want to have it all. Stefan's the safe one, I'm the dangerous one, blah blah blah." His eyes narrow, and she would shiver if she actually believed he would hurt her. "But here's the thing, Elena. I won't stick around forever. Once this whole Klaus business is over, I'm getting the _hell_ out of Mystic Falls. And you can live your life with Stefan, because this shit just isn't worth it."

She takes an anxious step forward, almost subconsciously, the noise piercing in this devastating silence. She doesn't believe him, not even a little bit, but she worries that he believes it.

She gazes at him through hooded eyelashes.

"Bullshit."

He mirrors her advance, narrowing this distance between them so fluidly that she almost doesn't notice. "Bullshit?" He questions, and now the glee is out of his voice, and he just sounds sad.

She looks at him evenly. As always, he is sinful and pure at once, black hair and blue eyes and white skin. It is a testament to how much he unhinges her that his beauty is an afterthought for her. She thinks about who he is, who he is supposed to be (who he was once, long ago), and that same familiar ache in her chest throbs anew. She hates herself for doing this to him, but she's not ready.

"I'm trying to say something _monumental_," she begins, anger blurring the words, effectively unraveling these many fragile threads binding them, "And you're pushing me away because you can't handle the truth. Do you realize how weak that makes you? How weak that makes both of us?"

He blinks again, confused, caught off-guard. She relishes the sight like the first flowers of spring, and her heart pounds, stretching her body this way and that, molding itself to him.

(Always, always him.)

"I'm trying to tell you that I can't do this with you right now," she tries again when he doesn't say anything, her throat hurting like the way he hurts her regularly, "And you won't listen, because –"

"Because it's not _enough_!" He suddenly roars, throwing his hands in the air, his eyes wild and unfocused. "I know you'll be ready someday, whatever the hell that means, but I just can't wait that long. I'm not perfect and I'm not a nice guy, and I sure as hell can't wait for you. Do _you_ realize that this is the real world, not a romantic comedy?"

He takes a deep breath, clearly steeling himself for what will come next, and her breath hitches in her throat. Sometimes she does realize that she has the power to break him. But most of the time – today – all she can ever feel around him is the certainty that somehow, just somehow, they'll work it out.

But he shakes his head, slow, tired. "I won't wait for you," he whispers, pain lacing every word. "I can't."

She looks at him in dismay. "But Damon –" She tries (all she ever does is try with him).

"But nothing," he interrupts her, his eyes cold again, that shade she hates more than she hates Katherine, his voice utterly serious. "Nothing you say could change my mind. Nothing."

She knows he means it. She knows she's lost him. And still, she cannot help but pull herself towards him, wrenching and agonizing and _terrifying_. "Don't leave," she begs, and she doesn't know whether she means right now, or tomorrow, or forever, really. "Please don't leave me."

Disgust flashes across his face, so quickly she might have imagined it. "You don't mean that the way I need you to," he informs her, cruel and detached. "It's not enough."

And with that, he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving her standing there with something like regret burning on her tongue, hot and metallic and ugly.

He's right, of course. Because even the suffocating feeling reverberating through her chest isn't enough.

It could never be enough.

_fin

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